[Verse 3: Beanie Sigel]
You, know, B. Sige in the third lane
Gramps still praying, working on my nerves man
Like, "Son you gotta get your soul cleanBefore they blow them horns like Coltrane"
But still I cry tears of a hustler
Wipe tears from my mother, pull out beers for her brothers
That's above us, make beds for the babies
Tuck kids under covers, buy cribs for their mothers
Shit I'll probably be wilding with their fathers
Tell Ms. Robert, tell Anajmah that I'm riding for her father
That's like my brother, like same mother, different father
Any problems dawg, know I got 'em
And still we grind from the bottom
Just to make it to the bottom, sold crack in the alleyways
Still gave back Marcy on Dollar Day
Real gangstas make hood holidays
They ain't thank us but we still paid homage mang
Soul Food Sunday looking like Big Momma's mang
Tell the gang I never break my promise mang
Mang, uhh!

[Outro]
Even though what we do is wrong
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong
Even though what we do is wrong
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong

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About “What We Do”

A great cut from the bearded wonder aka Black Santa, featuring two compatriots with whom he has always had greatchemistry